Seventy-Eight
Courtney could only stare at the Trident, the twin to the Corellian from the Mayr. The last time her life had been normal, she had stood just as she did now, imagining the journey ahead. Even though it had only been a matter of days, that felt like a lifetime ago…wedged into that cramped personnel sphere with Bishop at the helm and her brother right behind her. How much different would things have turned out if they hadn’t gone down into the Basilisk Vent Field that day? If they had left five minutes sooner or later? If Ty’s blasted armature had snapped off upon impact or if the hydraulic pincers had failed? If he hadn’t filled the bioreactor or if its seal hadn’t ruptured? She’d be working in the lab with her brother right now, poring over discoveries they hoped would revolutionize their fields. He’d still be alive. All of the others would still be alive. When she traced the course of events back to the beginning, the only actual choice that could have prevented this nightmare had belonged to the two of them in this hanger and the brother she would never see again. They had been in such a hurry to dive while there was a lull in the seismic activity that they hadn’t stopped to think about the ramifications. What did the future hold for them from here, and what consequences did they risk by launching the Trident now?
These were foolish thoughts, she knew. There was nothing she could have or would have done differently at the time. No one could have known. It was as though they had been mere players in the first act of the tragedy to come, and they’d played their parts to perfection. From here on out, things would be different. They were in control now, and they would make sure that someone had to answer for all of this death, and that it would never happen again.
She’d watched the technicians ready the Corellian for launch a dozen times, but never this quickly, and never quite like this.
The Trident rested on an elevated steel platform with wheels like those of a train. They were already fitted to the rails, chocked, and braked. Cables and wires moored the submersible to its trolley. Bishop unfastened them one by one, then ascended the stairs against the hanger wall to the service platform, flush with the top of the Trident. Pipes as wide as her thighs climbed up the walls and crossed the ceiling, around the banks of useless lights. The exposed girders cast shadows so deep they were like pools of tar suspended overhead. Dribbles of water trickled through the roof and dripped onto the fixtures with a combination of pinging sounds and what could have passed for the scuttling noises of so many rats.
Bishop stepped from the platform and onto the Trident. His footsteps clanged on the closed hatch of the personnel sphere. He set to work disconnecting the various hoses and cables that recharged and fueled the myriad life support, propulsion, and navigation systems. She was a little worried about how he intended to launch the submersible without the power to operate the A-frame, which was nearly below the level of the water now as it was. And without electricity to power the trolley’s drive train, they were expecting an awful lot of gravity if they hoped it would get seventeen tons of deep sea submersible rolling toward the sea, even with the brakes disengaged.
She walked around a toppled tool cabinet and its spilled contents to the front of the Trident, leaned over the armatures folded over its front, and peered through the circular window. Inside waited nothing but shadows. She shivered at the thought of cramming herself into that small space and immersing it under the ocean. Images of the isolation chamber flashed though her mind. The darkness. The slow suffocation. Bishop’s grip on her hand loosening as consciousness abandoned him. The absolute certainty that she was going to die. She started to hyperventilate and had to turn away.
Breathing deeply of the smoky breeze, somewhat freshened by the gale winds blowing off the Pacific and into her face, she steadied her nerves and tried to chased away the stubborn memories.
“How much oxygen does it hold again?” she asked.
“Enough for forty hours with three passengers. We should have about sixty for the two of us.” Bishop leaned over the edge of the sub and peered curiously at her. “You don’t have to worry about that, Courtney. We can sail all the way to Namatanai on New Ireland with the hatch open, if you want. Other than immediately following the launch, we don’t need to be submerged at all.”
“And just how do you plan to launch it?”
“Would you quit worrying and trust me?” He smirked, then ducked back out of sight. “Everything’s under control.”
She waited a long moment before she could finally bring herself to ask.
“Will you come back with me? After everything’s over. Will you help me find my brother?”
He disconnected the lone remaining battery coupling, hopped back across to the platform, and descended the staircase.
The water dripping through the ceiling drummed a tinny rhythm on the housings of the lights, beneath which she heard more skritching sounds.
Bishop strode right up to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and leaned his forehead against hers so that she had no choice but to look into his blue eyes.
“Try and stop me.”
He kissed her until she was convinced, then turned her to face the west. The waves continued to grow taller and now nearly reached up the stern to the opening of the garage. The horizon was a churning mass of ash.
“Are you ready to go?”
There was a clattering sound behind her. She spun to see the hoses that dangled from the ceiling swaying from side to side.
“Yeah.” She turned her face back into the gusting wind and toward salvation. It was hard to believe they were actually going to leave. She almost had herself believing that they were going to die on this island. Yet still, it felt like a betrayal, as though by escaping the island she was abandoning all hope for her brother, even though she fully intended to return and find him, if it took the rest of her life to do so. “But I swear, I’ll be back.”
“We’ll be back, Courtney.” Bishop took her by the hand and guided her back to the Trident. “I promise you. We’ll be back.”
Seventy-Nine
Pike cruised toward the open hull of the Huxley once more. His heart raced in anticipation. He allowed it to do so only long enough to flood his body with adrenaline before willing it to slow once he reached the gaping maw. With a flick of his thumb, he killed the motor and simply released his grip on the RaveJet. It fell away from him and settled into the silt, drawing its tethers tight. He kicked his way back to the surface and surveyed the scene. He could clearly see into the main level of the ship. There was no one looking back at him from the exposed aft portions of the main lab, the engineering room, or the corridor between them. Just as he had expected. Their approach had been quiet enough not to draw the attention of those inside, where he could hear the mechanical rumble of the Trident powering up.
Excellent. Not only had they made it in time, but Bishop had the submersible ready and waiting for him.
The three men in the raft looked expectantly at him. With their pale faces, the bags under their eyes, and the way they cowered in the bottom of the boat, shivering against the rain, he knew they wouldn’t be any trouble.
They were already dead. They just didn’t know it yet.
He looped his fist around one of the ropes and paddled toward the main lab. When he reached the bulkhead, he moored the raft to a bent piece of metal. The craft rose and fell dramatically on the swelling waves, which at their highest point brought the craft to within six feet of the main level floor. While the submersible’s engine was running and surely echoing inside the hanger, he could risk speaking out loud without alerting those inside or raising suspicion with his own men by demanding silence.
“We climb up here,” he said, pulling himself into the raft. “I’ll go first and help the rest of you up.”
He shouldered his backpack and turned toward the Huxley.
“It sounds like something’s still running on the ship,” Bradley said. “If there’s power, maybe we can just call for help from here.”
Pike looked back at hi
m and smiled his warmest smile.
“There’s no power on the ship. That sound you hear is my little surprise. It’s how we’re getting out of here.”
“What is it?” Reaves asked. “When did you have the time to—?”
Pike turned his back on Reaves, leapt up to the ledge at the apex of a wave, and hauled himself aboard. He leaned back over the sharp metal edge and extended his arm for Bradley, whose head bobbed at the level of the slanted floor. The angle was even steeper than it had been when Pike was last here. When the reef finally gave, the stern was going to go down in a hurry.
“Grab my arms and kick off from the hull,” he said. “I’ll pull you the rest of the way up.”
Bradley nodded and raised his arms. At the highest point of the next wave, Pike grabbed him around the wrists and heaved. Bradley thrashed and kicked against the ship. His shirt tore on the ragged steel lip as Pike tugged him onto the mess of broken glass and debris toward where the rainwater puddled against the wall to the divers locker room. He scurried back to the edge and repeated the process first with Barnes, and then with Reaves. He didn’t like the look in the anthropologist’s eyes. Something had changed inside of him when that pump of his got her neck ripped open. He had never known Reaves to be anything other than a passive, easygoing academic who was about as threatening as a housefly. Something was different now. An aura of repressed aggression radiated from him like so many of the zealots he had encountered during his various tours of duty. This recognition had saved his life on more than one occasion. When the time came to act, he was going to need to keep a close eye on Reaves.
The four of them stood on the steep floor. The waves beat against its underside with a thumping sound that reverberated into their legs.
“Follow me,” Pike said.
With the door to the lab still attached to the forward portion of the ship, they were going to have to do this the hard way. He walked back to the ledge, leaned against the interior wall, and stepped out over the ocean. He planted his right foot in the hallway and swung his body around. The door to the stern deck stood ajar at the end of the sloped corridor, revealing nothing but water and the very top of the A-frame way out there. He helped Bradley around the wall and then left him to assist the others as he eased his way down to the hanger door. He placed his palm against it and felt the thrum of the Trident’s motor through it. With a quick glance back over his shoulder, he slipped his pistol from his bag and held it against his chest where the others couldn’t see it.
He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly in a practiced manner that allowed him to focus his senses and sharpen his reflexes.
His moment had finally arrived. Soon enough, he would be richer than God.
Pike leaned his shoulder into the door and slowly turned the knob. When he felt the latch release, he pushed it open just far enough that he could see into the enormous garage. There was no sign of anyone in the area directly to his left, just piles of debris at the foot of the stairs leading up to the control room. All of its windows had shattered, and its walls appeared to lean inward. The floor glistened with a steady stream of rainwater leaking through the ceiling. He pushed the door open a hair wider and saw the Trident across the room. All of the couplings had been disconnected and hung limply onto it like multicolored vines. The hatch of the personnel sphere stood open. Its fiberglass body shuddered with life. He heard voices, but couldn’t decipher the words. There was no one on the platform above it. Either they were already inside the submersible or they were out of his range of sight behind the door to his right.
There was only one way to find out.
Pike took a two-handed grip on the pistol, lowered himself to a crouch, and ducked around the door. By the time it closed behind him, the Beretta was pointed into the rear corner at two startled faces.
He had Bishop and Martin in his sights.
Eighty
Bishop had just finished manually disengaging the trolley’s brakes when the sudden movement caught his eye and he found himself staring at Pike down the barrel of an automatic pistol. He slowly reached back and drew Courtney behind him, keeping her out of the direct line of fire. He raised his palms so that Pike could clearly see he was unarmed.
How in the world had he gotten onto the ship?
Pike stepped to his right, away from the door.
“What’s the Trident’s status?” Pike asked.
Bishop eased cautiously backward. If Pike so much as flinched, he would spin and tackle Courtney behind the sub.
“What’s the goddamned status?”
“The batteries are fully charged. The fuel and oxygen reserves are at nearly one hundred percent. I haven’t checked the instrumentation yet, but I see no reason that all systems shouldn’t be fully online.”
The door opened tentatively inward to Pike’s left. He stayed clear of the door and out of sight as Bradley entered, followed closely by Reaves. Their faces registered surprise at the sight of Courtney and him.
“What’s left to do?” Pike demanded. The pistol never wavered in his grasp. Bishop had seen enough men with guns to immediately recognize which ones were prepared to use them. He continued his careful retreat. Not only was this man capable of pulling the trigger, the look in his eyes suggested that he was eager to do so. “Move another inch and I’ll put a bullet between the girl’s pretty green eyes over your right shoulder.”
Bishop stopped, but slowly raised his right shoulder. He hoped Courtney took the hint and ducked.
“What’s going on here?” Bradley asked.
Pike ignored him.
“Kick out the chocks, climb in before she hits the water, and fire the thrusters,” Bishop said. His eyes never left Pike’s. “Unless you take on ballast, she’ll float on her own from there.”
Bradley stepped farther into the room and peered around the door to see Pike in his shooter’s stance.
“What in the name of God are you doing?” he demanded.
Barnes was the last to enter the room. The door fell closed behind him with a resounding thud.
“I’m commandeering this vehicle,” Pike said.
His stare locked with Bishop’s, he swung his pistol quickly to his left, blindly aligned it with Barnes’s startled face, and squeezed the trigger. Barnes’s scorched face crumpled inward between his wide eyes. A ribbon of blood unraveled from the exit wound. Pike’s sights were back on Bishop before Barnes’s body even hit the floor.
“Jesus Christ!” Reaves shouted. He threw himself to the ground beside Barnes in the rapidly expanding puddle of blood. “What the hell did you just do?”
It had all happened so quickly that Bishop had been unable to act, but it was the nature of the violence that surprised him the most. Barnes had never seen it coming. Nor had Bradley or Reaves. Pike obviously had his own agenda, which didn’t include any of the rest of them.
Pike must have identified Bishop as the greatest threat, and wasn’t about to take his eyes off of him. If he made his move now, he’d be riddled with bullets before he could even turn around. Maybe his body would shield Courtney long enough for her to dive behind the Trident, but where could she possibly go from there?
“What are you doing, Roland?” Bradley asked. He held his hands up at his sides. “You don’t have to do this.”
Pike smiled and Bishop knew that none of them would be allowed to live.
“Yes,” Pike said calmly. The Beretta leveled at Bishop’s center mass. Pike’s finger tightened almost imperceptibly on the trigger. “I do.”
It was now or never.
Eighty-One
Reaves could only stare at the blood pouring from the back of Barnes’s head. The exit wound was large enough to accommodate his fist. He tried not to look at the sloppy gray matter squeezing from the hair-lined hole in the cranium or the lines of blood tracing the contours of Barnes’s face. Instead, he found himself focusing on the nearly black rivulets running down the sloped floor toward the sea, engulfing the spatters as they went.
The realization suddenly struck him. Pike had betrayed them all. None of them would ever be leaving this island. They were witnesses to a crime he had yet to commit.
Pike was keeping their Chaco Man all to himself, and heaven help the world if he planned on selling it to the highest bidder.
Heat expanded in his core, growing from an ember into a wildfire that coursed through his veins. It erupted as rage inside his head. His vision turned scarlet. He couldn’t allow this to happen. There was too much at stake.
Reaves leapt to his feet and drew the pistol from his waistband in one swift motion. A bellow of anguish burst past his lips.
Pike turned toward him in slow motion as Reaves squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked in his hands hard enough to make him stumble backward.
A mist of blood burst from the back of Pike’s left shoulder, followed by syrupy spatters that tracked the bullet’s path to the wall, where it ricocheted with a spark.
And still Pike swiveled toward him, bringing the gun to bear on his chest.
From the corner of his eye, Reaves saw Bishop grab Courtney and lunge behind the Trident.
He squeezed the trigger again, but his arms were unprepared for the kick. The bullet flew high over Pike’s head as he returned fire.
There was a flash from Pike’s barrel, and he simultaneously felt something punch him in the gut, lifting him from the ground. He landed on his back and slid downhill through Barnes’s blood. Or was it his own? Searing pain blossomed in his belly and streaked outward into his appendages. It wasn’t until he pawed at the wound with both hands that he discovered he had lost his gun. Warmth sluiced between his fingers. He could already feel it trickling down his sides. He tried to sit up, but his body wanted nothing to do with it.
He raised his trembling right hand to see the sheer amount of blood. Through his fanned fingers, he watched Pike take aim at his face, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips.
Vector Borne Page 33
